The Will of a Warrior
by PennyOfTheWild
Summary: 'He is defined, as most people are, by his relationships with others.' When life hands you an opportunity, take it. Ares-centric, five-shot; companion piece to A Memoir of Wisdom.
1. Tactics

**A/N:** This is a companion piece to 'A Memoir of Wisdom' - however, it isn't necessary for you to read that first. Do leave a thought; I love hearing from you all!

**Dedication:** Once again, to Erin - I'm not capable of giving you half of what you've given me. But I can try.

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**The Will of a Warrior**

_(or, A Lesson in Self-Belief)_

**I: Tactics**

_(or, the interactions between a brother and a sister)_

"_**Technique is noticed most markedly in the case of those who have not mastered it."**__**  
**__**-**__**Leon Trotsky.**_

_**

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**_

He is defined, as most people are, by his relationships with others.

"Perhaps," his sister says, disarming him with the slightest flick of her wrist, "you might fare better if you actually thought before attacking."

He is heaving, panting, his breath coming in rapid, shaky gasps, and she hasn't broken a sweat.

But – he smiles, grins widely, the fire in his eyes flaring. "I rather think that takes the fun out of the fight."

"Your philosophy is that of a barbarian - " she begins, and is cut off as he feints, reaches, throws dirt into her face and reclaims his weapon, all in the manner of a few moments. She swears, barely bringing her blade up in time to block his. "I disarmed you!" she cries, and he relishes having thrown her off-balance. It isn't every day one can claim the honor of catching Pallas Athena off-guard.

"You should've cut my throat," he sneers, pressing her backward, "while you had the chance."

Her mouth sets in a thin, hard line – accepting him, once again, as a worthy enemy. It never ceases to amuse him how, in spite of her _wisdom_ and _intelligence_, she always, always underestimates him.

She ought to know, better than anyone, what he is capable of.

Infinite evolution.

_You may presume to read a person's face, to understand his abilities, to be capable of countering him if he strikes you – but until you are aware of his baser instincts, you will never, never defeat him._


	2. TalkingTos

**II: Talking-Tos**

_(or, the necessity of perseverance)_

"_**Insurrection is an art, and like all arts has its own laws."  
-Leon Trotsky.**_

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"Enter."

He shakes his head almost fondly at the gravelly tones his father employs; it is no secret among the dwellers of Olympus that the King of the Sky adores melodrama. The doors to the throne room swing open at his touch and he strides inside, head high, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans.

His father, seated straight-backed on his throne, immaculately dressed in his usual blue pinstriped suit, frowns as his eyes travel over the sunglasses, leather jacket, black t-shirt – "This is a hearing, Enyalius, not one of your biker-boy get-togethers."

He removes the sunglasses, slipping them into his pocket. "That so? I don't see anyone here but you, Father." Idly, he wonders how his father is even aware of the term 'biker-boy'.

"A courtesy extended to you," his father's scowl grows more pronounced; he sits up even straighter. "Of course, if you'd rather the entire council were here to take account of your actions, that, too, can be arranged."

"Courtesy to me?" he repeats, bemused, "You just want to make sure Uncle doesn't have a chance to gloat that it was your son and not his who was responsible for the theft."

The Lord of the Sky pinches the bridge of his nose between a thumb and a forefinger. "Your audacity surprises me," he says bitingly, "considering that it was your actions that caused the situation in the first place."

He shrugs. "Hey. I'm not denying it."

"Aren't you?" And this time, it his flaming red eyes that narrow, his mouth that sets in a thin, hard line.

"You persist in thinking the worst of me, Father," he says, barely managing to keep the bitterness out of his tone, "but might I remind you that I have always taken responsibility for my actions?"

The formality of the words helps a great deal; if he had the liberty to express himself as he saw fit, he would be parading around Olympus with the black-bearded head of Kronos' last-born mounted on his lance. Damn the consequences to Hades.

"Your actions, son of mine, cause more trouble than they are worth."

"Make me suffer for them, then. Go on. Banish me, or incarcerate me – whatever it is you do to criminals nowadays."

"And lose the war that is looming on the horizon?" his father demands. "Do you take me for a fool, Enyalius?"

He bites his lip mutinously and refuses to answer.

His father sighs. "Am I to understand you won't offer explanations, either?"

"By explanations, do you mean excuses?" He crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw. "No, I won't. I won't stand and offer empty justifications. I did what I did. "

"I suppose I should be grateful for your honesty," his father mutters, and runs a (seemingly) weary hand over his face. "Alright, Enyalius. I believe you didn't mean any actual harm."

He bows stiffly and leaves, wondering how the old man can, with only a few words, take the sweetness out of rebellion. Must be the drama classes.

_They say: you can run, but you can't hide. I say: accept that you will be caught eventually and stand your ground. It is better to die like a man than to be stabbed in the back like a coward._


	3. Targets

**III: Targets**

_(or, the value of motivation)_

"_**Where force is necessary, there it must be applied boldly, decisively and completely."**_

_**-Leon Trotsky.**_

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He will tell you this: he is not ambitious. After all, his goals differ from those of other people in that they are not fixed – rather, they are flexible, and so he, too, he tells himself, is flexible. He, more than anyone, can derive pleasure from the simplest, most mundane things life has to offer (even more than his oft-inebriated brother).

But – that he is _not_ ambitious is a lie.

He is aware that ambition can, if wielded correctly, give rise to spectacular results. And so he cultivates ambition – but only in others; he does not trust himself with it – and rears it, and laughs when it bears fruit.

(Always destructive though; this he knows. He is not capable of anything else.)

His daughter's figure is hazy in the mist of smoke that fills the CSS Birmingham's boiler room, but even though it is blurred by the rising vapor, he can see the half-scowling, half-apprehensive glower twisting her features (a mixture of his and her mother's, but mostly his).

"I should've let one of my sons take this quest," he growls at her, when what he means is, 'You can do better than this.'

He watches her stutter in reply – watches her flinch away from him, and wonders why it is that he, more than anyone, can derive pleasure from this when it wasn't his intent to do so.

But at least – he thinks, as she walks away, straight-backed (he feels the tiniest flicker of Pride), he acknowledges he is flawed.

(Always destructive, he muses. He is not capable of anything else.)

_Control. Possession. Vulnerability. Manipulation. You may think them horrible, but they are merely tools. And if you are not capable of using those tools handed to you, you might as well sign your own death warrant. _


	4. TruthTelling

**IV: Truth-Telling**

_(or, the virtue of falsehoods)_

"_**There are no absolute rules of conduct, either in peace or war. Everything depends on circumstances."**__**  
**__**-**__**Leon Trotsky.**_

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His mother paces – up and down the length of the room – her eyebrows knitted, her features twisted into the kind of scowl that mars even her (facial) beauty. Sunlight streams through the large, ceiling-to-floor windows; beyond the glass lie the vine fields, gleaming viridian beneath a stunning, cloud-less sky.

Father must be in a good mood.

He runs his fingers through his (dark, curly) hair. "Everything okay, Ma?"

She shoots him a glare that could curdle blood. He grins. "I guess not."

Her brown eyes flare. "Watch yourself, Enyalius." She breathes in sharply, blinks, hard, and turns towards the window, arms sliding up to squeeze her torso. Her shoulders hunch, black braid hanging limply down her back.

He watches her for a long moment, then stands, approaches her. "Mother?" His voice is gruff.

"Go away," she tells him, but there is no meaning to it, and so he stays; sure enough, a heartbeat later, she speaks again, "Am I a horrible mother?"

There is a plaintive note to her voice, and he mentally curses himself: he is not cut out for reassuring people; anything he says with that intention in mind will come out sounding awkward – or worse, will hurt.

This is his brother's domain, or his aunt's, not his. Never his.

But she does not wait for his answer – maybe she, too, feels it will be a long while before he gives one.

"I – I just want for our family to be happy," and from this he gathers she has had a run-in with one of the numerous demigods that will forever be the bane of her existence – one of the few who made the disastrous mistake of giving the Queen of Heaven a piece of his – or her – mind. Inwardly, he grimaces: there is only one demigod who would do something so foolhardy.

"Mother," he says, and the words are rusty – as if coming from the mouth of one who hasn't spoken in an eternity, "we are happy."

It is a lie, of course, but he's told many far greater in his time. What difference does another dark mark do, if scored against a blackboard?

His mother turns, gives him a watery half-smile. "You're a good boy," she tells him, and he winces, inside. "But I wish you were kinder."

Yeah, he thinks. Sometimes, so do I.

_All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. _

_- Oscar Wilde_


	5. The Epilogue

**V: Triumphs **

(or, the Epilogue)

"_**The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end."**_

_**-Leon Trotsky.**_

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Every once in a while even those of us who appear to have no redeeming qualities are thrown a lifeline: a once-in-a-lifetime chance to turn over a new leaf – to become better people.

For him, whose life is equal to a thousand lifetimes, there have been a thousand chances, and he has taken every single one.

- but, he has discovered, a person's good deeds are always overshadowed by their wrongs - so mostly, he doesn't give a damn.

But – whenever an opportunity arises – even though he had promised himself he would not take it next time – he does so anyway.

(He watches his daughter slay the drakon, her aura and his flickering around her in a glorious, passionate blaze of red and he feels that warm glow of pride flare.)

(Because that's his girl.)

(And if she's his, destruction isn't all he's capable of creating, see?)

_Your weaknesses … are your greatest strengths. (Hah, take _that_, Athena.)_

_Ares Enyalius, The Year 2009, AD_

_Olympus_

"_You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you." Leon Trotsky_

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**A/N:** We all have the right to be given another chance. I hope that, after reading this, you will see Ares (and by extension, people similar to him, whether fictional or otherwise) in a new light. Leave a thought: a rant, a ramble, CC - anything goes. I have cookies. ;D

Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL: see her profile for more information.


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